Post by amylou on Jul 19, 2011 21:35:08 GMT -5
Well, I've got something, it's breaking Martin's rules. But since I'm the only one playing along, I've made new ones. I didn't just write this today like all the others. Martin, you've seen this - sorry. But I have improved it. Read if you want, don't if you don't.
Sugar Me Sweet
Church camp and Def Leopard were married the summer of 88, a union between teenage yearning and Jesus. Pour Some Sugar On Me was our anthem, sustaining us through a week of praise and worship and nightly invitations to receive Christ as our Lord and Savior.
The girls spent hours getting ready for the evening assemblies. Our hair was big, eyes lined like raccoons, skirts above the knee and a bible in our hand. We were ready to make out with the first boy to look our way if he wore faded jeans and owned enough polo shirts to rival the colors in a box of crayons.
The worship leader, in his late twenties, had dreams of breaking onto the Christian Music scene. With one eye on his keyboard, and one eye on the girls; he sang about fitting in while remaining pure.
The second night during a synthesised version of Amazing Grace, a chubby kid with rosy cheeks approached me.
"Hey, um, my friend over there, he wants to meet you."
He turned and pointed to a boy with blonde feathered hair that brushed the collar of his blue polo shirt. He looked bored with the song and oblivious to what his pudgy friend was up to.
"Meet who?"
I pretended not to hear him over the music.
"You."
"Me?"
"Yeah. He sent me over here."
This was a sick joke to play on a girl, especially at church camp.
"Whatever." I dismissed him.
"So, you don't want to?"
"Want to what?"
"Meet him?"
"Which one again?"
"Him, his name's Kenny."
"Go away. It's not funny."
"I'm serious. He saw you walk in. He thinks you're pretty. Can you meet us after this?"
"No."
During closing prayer, we were offered the chance to invite Christ into our hearts, instructed to pray a prayer that would unlock the door to eternal salvation. Satisfied by the number of kids raising their hand to become a Christian, and hopeful because five days remained to reach the rest of us, our youth pastor said the magic word; goodnight. We were free, with one hour before lockdown.
The token chunky kid and his friend were waiting outside. I passed by looking down at the gravel, focused on the crunch beneath my keds.
"Hey." The boy with good hair touched my arm. "What's your name?"
"Amy."
"I'm Kenny. I wanted to meet you."
"You did?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you send your friend over?"
"I was afraid. You're really pretty."
"Me?"
"Yeah."
Because I owned the insecurities of a fifteen-year-old girl with a father that was around but absent, I spent the rest of the week ditching my friends for the boy who thought I was pretty. They understood.
The last night of camp we sat on the pier holding hands, our feet dangled over the edge. His jam box set on repeat, played our theme song, eating away the D batteries. He was working up the nerve to kiss me, and I was doing my best to avoid it. But the moment I let my guard down, he leaned in.
When our lips met, I expected to feel what the other girls squealed about. Warm inside, tingly all over, something, anything. But the only thing I felt was his tongue prying my mouth open, slithering around inside. I played along, copying what he did. Boy's tasted weird, his upper lip salty, his tongue too eager, his breath stale. And that's when I felt something, infected by germs and dying for my first kiss to be over. Eventually it was, and I'd finally been kissed.
I wondered how many more times I would kiss a boy before I liked it. What if I never did, was something wrong with me? Maybe my friends didn't like it either.
After our clumsy kiss, we promised each other forever, even though we went to different schools, and he lived on the side of town where houses were made of brick. But the economic train tracks that divided us proved to be our hurdle.
By summer’s end, he’d moved on while my heart remained at camp listening to Def Leopard. But, I had a new song to put on repeat; Love Bites.
He was a terrible kisser anyway.
Sugar Me Sweet
Church camp and Def Leopard were married the summer of 88, a union between teenage yearning and Jesus. Pour Some Sugar On Me was our anthem, sustaining us through a week of praise and worship and nightly invitations to receive Christ as our Lord and Savior.
The girls spent hours getting ready for the evening assemblies. Our hair was big, eyes lined like raccoons, skirts above the knee and a bible in our hand. We were ready to make out with the first boy to look our way if he wore faded jeans and owned enough polo shirts to rival the colors in a box of crayons.
The worship leader, in his late twenties, had dreams of breaking onto the Christian Music scene. With one eye on his keyboard, and one eye on the girls; he sang about fitting in while remaining pure.
The second night during a synthesised version of Amazing Grace, a chubby kid with rosy cheeks approached me.
"Hey, um, my friend over there, he wants to meet you."
He turned and pointed to a boy with blonde feathered hair that brushed the collar of his blue polo shirt. He looked bored with the song and oblivious to what his pudgy friend was up to.
"Meet who?"
I pretended not to hear him over the music.
"You."
"Me?"
"Yeah. He sent me over here."
This was a sick joke to play on a girl, especially at church camp.
"Whatever." I dismissed him.
"So, you don't want to?"
"Want to what?"
"Meet him?"
"Which one again?"
"Him, his name's Kenny."
"Go away. It's not funny."
"I'm serious. He saw you walk in. He thinks you're pretty. Can you meet us after this?"
"No."
During closing prayer, we were offered the chance to invite Christ into our hearts, instructed to pray a prayer that would unlock the door to eternal salvation. Satisfied by the number of kids raising their hand to become a Christian, and hopeful because five days remained to reach the rest of us, our youth pastor said the magic word; goodnight. We were free, with one hour before lockdown.
The token chunky kid and his friend were waiting outside. I passed by looking down at the gravel, focused on the crunch beneath my keds.
"Hey." The boy with good hair touched my arm. "What's your name?"
"Amy."
"I'm Kenny. I wanted to meet you."
"You did?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you send your friend over?"
"I was afraid. You're really pretty."
"Me?"
"Yeah."
Because I owned the insecurities of a fifteen-year-old girl with a father that was around but absent, I spent the rest of the week ditching my friends for the boy who thought I was pretty. They understood.
The last night of camp we sat on the pier holding hands, our feet dangled over the edge. His jam box set on repeat, played our theme song, eating away the D batteries. He was working up the nerve to kiss me, and I was doing my best to avoid it. But the moment I let my guard down, he leaned in.
When our lips met, I expected to feel what the other girls squealed about. Warm inside, tingly all over, something, anything. But the only thing I felt was his tongue prying my mouth open, slithering around inside. I played along, copying what he did. Boy's tasted weird, his upper lip salty, his tongue too eager, his breath stale. And that's when I felt something, infected by germs and dying for my first kiss to be over. Eventually it was, and I'd finally been kissed.
I wondered how many more times I would kiss a boy before I liked it. What if I never did, was something wrong with me? Maybe my friends didn't like it either.
After our clumsy kiss, we promised each other forever, even though we went to different schools, and he lived on the side of town where houses were made of brick. But the economic train tracks that divided us proved to be our hurdle.
By summer’s end, he’d moved on while my heart remained at camp listening to Def Leopard. But, I had a new song to put on repeat; Love Bites.
He was a terrible kisser anyway.
